Page 171 of Ashen Torment

Richard’s knight advances.

“You should not touch the wine, the fever has not yet abandoned you.”

“Dr. Norton said I must drink,” I say, barely grazing the glass.

From the sofa, Nathaniel lifts his gaze from the book and sighs.

“I do not believe Dr. Norton ordered you to sip wine, Evander.”

The chalice slides across the table with a barely perceptible clink when I let go of it.

Richard chuckles, tilting his head toward me.

“I can drink in your stead, if you so desire.”

“I shall not carry you home, brother, be mindful of that.”

“It will not be necessary.”

And yet, you inebriate yourself with such ease that it becomes almost remarkable.

Nathaniel reopens the book.

“Baudelaire is not a man of order,” he observes. “He writes of pleasure, of pain, of boredom... of the life that forces you to choose between surviving and consuming yourself.”

Richard lifts his chalice.

“How can you read those lines without feeling overwhelmed?”

“One does not allow oneself to be overwhelmed,” he replies without looking away from the verses. “One observes. One records. That which is useful remains, the rest, you let go.”

Richard moves another piece after me, I move a Bishop, my fingers sliding over the blue velvet lining of the case. The piece settles, Richard lifts his gaze from his glass.

“Evander?” his voice becomes firmer. “What do you feel when reading Baudelaire? It is so intense.”

I turn toward him. Nathaniel’s hand slides again between the pages of the book.

“I feel it,” I say finally, “the life that does not forgive. And yet, there is a pleasure in all this, even in the pain.”

Richard lowers his eyes to his glass, his lips trembling slightly. “Perhaps... perhaps I should stop fleeing from the things that strike me.”

Nathaniel looks up. “You do not seem to flee or deprive yourself of anything, brother.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I am talking about.”

My gaze oscillates between the two brothers. The fire in the hearth begins to irritate me, the heat runs along my shoulders and back, light but insistent.

I shift slightly in the chair, seeking relief. The fever has not yet granted me respite.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Richard murmurs, his fists clenching slightly upon his knees.

Nathaniel closes the book with a sharp snap, the sound of the binding hitting the mahogany case echoes through the room. He stands and sits between us, closer to the fireplace, his body becoming a slight screen between me and the flames.

Immediately, I feel less heat on my back.

The chessboard before me remains motionless for a moment. The King and Queen seem to observe us, Zeus and Hera frozen beneath the glow of the fire. Richard stares at the winged horse.